I lay there, stretched out, looking at the one star visible through the tiny window of the room. Only connect. How can you do that when the connections are broken?

There are times when it will go so wrong that you will barely be alive, and times when you realise that being barely alive, on your own terms, is better than living a bloated half-life on someone else's terms.

I never wanted children. If I'd been deeply in love with a man and he'd wanted children, it would have been difficult.

I struggled in my mind with all kinds of defenses. Should I be hurt? Surprised? Should I laugh it off? I wanted to say something cruel to expiate my anger and to justify myself. But it's difficult with old friends; difficult because it's so easy. You know one another as well as lovers do and you have had less to pretend about. I poured myself a drink and shrugged. 'Nothing's perfect.

August. We were arguing. You want love to be like this every day don't you? 92 degrees even in the shade.

As a writer, if you're prepared to work from your own wound, you're allowing people into the most vulnerable parts of yourself.

There are voices and they must be heard.